


His Hands

by cherryrayflo



Category: One Piece
Genre: Kid has a thing for Law's hands, M/M, that's all this is, that's literally it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryrayflo/pseuds/cherryrayflo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kid's gay for pretty and deadly hands, whoops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Hands

His hands hypnotize you, they always have. The flawless expanse of his flesh across narrow palms and long, slender fingers perfectly mirrors his pristine, doctorly demeanor. The tanned skin looks to have been kissed by the sun gods, but the chill of his touch is as if he carries winter in his very bones. His fingernails are short, jagged and thin from his constant biting. If you’d never had the opportunity to observe him closer, you would have suspected it as a nervous habit. You know better now, as a man that’s never nervous cannot carry a nervous tic, but an anxious man carries many. You’ve seen the aftermath of a breakdown on his hands, his nails all but ripped from the roots and bleeding profusely down trembling fingers that just won't still. The sight of such a guarded man falling apart broke you, and you swore to yourself right then and there you’d do your damnedest to keep him together when he was falling apart.

As much as you hate getting injured in battle, you often find yourself allowing a bullet to graze your side or a sword to nick you for a chance to watch the surgeon in his most intimate and natural setting. His hands work so quickly and confidently that you find yourself mesmerized by his movements. You stare when he operates, you know you do, and yet you find that you’re unable to stop, even if you wanted to. The barely-there touch of a more delicate procedures send an icy fire through your veins when he brushes against your heated flesh and you often fight the desire to grab his hand in the midst of his work and kiss the letters on each finger with a gentleness that would surprise anyone else.

When he must resort to aggressive procedures, you find yourself in a strange appreciation for the brutish manner he’ll dig his slim fingers into your skin to remove a bullet or shards of broken glass or the shattered blade of an opponent. You’ve become fond of his exasperated sighs and the near-violent way he’ll rip metal from your wounds as a show that yes, you idiot, I know you’re here on purpose. Sometimes he’ll stop in the middle of removing a particularly large shard or more deeply embedded bullet with his fingers still in your wound and give you an incredulous look, to which you’ll just give an innocent grin in reply.

 _You know Eustass-ya, for a man whose Devil Fruit allows him to control metal, one would think you’d be more adamant about removing these obstructions yourself_ , he’ll leer at you through narrowed eyes, betrayed by the spark of humor that darts through them as he adjusts his grip on the object in question.

 _Dunno_ , you’ll challenge back, caught up in admiring the strange sort of intimacy that comes from the hands of a man aptly titled the Surgeon of Death knuckle deep in your flesh and moulding to you in ways no ordinary man could. You’ll smirk then, trailing your eyes up to meet his and glinting mischievously as you tell him, _Killer’s always telling me to go see a doctor for this shit, though. Figured you’re the best option I got, huh?_ His eyes will narrow at that, and that sinful smirk will spread across his face and into his tired glare as he fucking _twists_ the intrusive objects while he rips it from your body. You’ll jolt as the pain bursts into your veins from the sudden savagery and snarl at him, regardless of the fact you knew it was coming.

He always makes it a show after he finishes his work and has bandaged your wounds. He’ll bring his blood-stained gloves to his lips as he peels them off of those perfect hands with his teeth, slowly exposing the pitch-stained tattoos that adorn both hands. You sit there on his operating table, helpless to watch and slow burn in your chest while he torments you with your weakness. (You know he knows, you’ve never felt a need to hide your obsession with his immaculately beautiful, deadly hands.) After he’s tossed the gloves, you jump on your chance without hesitation and capture your fascination between your own hands.

You kiss every inch of his skin, appreciating the soft chill against your painted lips. It’s routine for you, though you’re more than certain the gentleness you exude in these moments still catches the elder Supernova off-guard. _And here I was believing the notorious Captain Kid was an absolutely ruthless animal_ , he’ll smirk as you press your lips to the marks on the backsides of his hands. Some days you won’t bother to indulge his comments, but other days you catch the tiniest glimmer of appreciative affection in his tired eyes and can’t help yourself.

 _I guess it just takes a monster like the Surgeon of Death to tame a savage beast like me, doesn’t it, Trafalgar?_ You catch his gaze as you continue your affections with a teasing smirk on your lips, kissing the letters on each finger before flipping his hands up in your own larger ones. He always watches you like some otherworldly entity eying down its prey, and it both chills you to the bone and sets your blood boiling. You’ll kiss every fingerprint, starting with his right pinky to the thumb and then the same with his left hand. There’s a little raised scar on his left thumb that has survived the years, and although he won’t tell you were he got it, you’ve got your suspicions that it’s a mark from his childhood.

 _This scar from the North, Trafalgar? Looks like you were a little clumsy with a scalpel back then_ , you’ll whisper against the smooth strip before you nip at it with the sharp edges of your teeth. It makes the breath catch in his throat, quietly enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t so absorbed in his presence. Sometimes you’ll kiss the action away, other times you’ll rile him up just a little more and suck his thumb into the velvet heat of your mouth. He can’t break your gaze then, and it absolutely wrecks you to hold such a power over him. Quietly you’ll wonder to yourself if anyone else has ever had this power as you lap softly at the pad of his thumb, but you always stop that thought before it festers into an unreasonable bout of jealousy.

 _Does it matter where it’s from, Eustass-ya? One personal marking is meaningless amongst the thousands of flawless successes, is it not?_ He’ll smirk then, that stupid smug look to hide any accidental exposure. You want to hate that look, to tear it off his face so he has nothing to hide behind, but he wears it so well you find it hard to harbor your distaste very long. So you express your irritation in a more practical way and drag your teeth gently over his knuckle before letting the digit go with another kiss against the pale scar. When you look back up at him, he’s worrying his bottom lip with his left canine (it’s always the left one, you’ve noticed) and gives you the sudden urge to kiss him.

 _Oi, Trafalgar,_ you’ll call, and he’ll catch your gaze like a deer in the headlights. The expression only stays for a fleeting moment though, before he’s right back to his typically cold appearance as if nothing had ever happened. You’ll stare him down until he rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to no doubt tell you off before you make your move, cutting off his insult with your lips against his. He always starts slightly, just as you always fear he’ll reject you, but after a moment he kisses you back. The lips against your own are tentative, too afraid to let go but still desperate for another human’s touch.

You indulge him with slow kisses, passionate and deep and you can only hope you’re conveying these nameless feelings to him in the most accurate way possible. His hands come to your throat and he wraps those graceful fingers around it, a threat you both know he doesn’t mean. Sometimes he’ll start to squeeze, and you’ll let him. He never gets far before he lets off the pressure and moves his hands to your face or your hair, and you know that’s the closest thing to trust you’ll ever get from him. (It’s not even that you can blame him for his hesitations in a world like this, where both of you are high-bounty, high-threat pirates in a world out for blood.)

Those beautiful, perfect hands of his feel so soft against your rougher cheeks, and you can feel the slight variation from the scar when he strokes the pad of his thumb under your eye. When they brush through your hair, they’re gentle at first, smoothing through the tangled, salt-drenched strands. The longer you drag the kiss on, however, the rougher those fingers pull until you can feel the blunt edges of his nails scrabbling for better purchase against your scalp. That’s when you’ll break away from him, dragging his hands out of your hair to press your lips to the inside of each wrist in a gesture that’s not quite a kiss before dropping his hands and giving him the most sinister grin you can manage.

 _Sorry Doc, gotta get back to my crew. Can’t let them think I died on the operating table of the enemy’s ship, now can I?_ You’ll slip by him in his moment of shock and toss him an absolutely lecherous grin over your shoulder as you slip out the door. He turns on his heels to catch you, always a moment too late. Just before you slip out of view, you catch a final glimpse of him staring at his hands and the barely-there blush that stains his cheeks before he shakes it away.

You think you might be starting to love more than just his hands.


End file.
